Page 72 of Wicked By Design

Hetty nodded and walked towards her, taking hold of her hands. “You know I’m always here if you need me, and Hart will pummel him if he puts a foot out of line.”

“I know, but he won’t. Not in the way you might think, at least.”

Cilly turned back to the mirror. She touched the brooch Damian had given her, which was pinned at her decolletage. His admission to her yesterday had explained a good deal she had not understood before, but she knew tonight would be complicated. Whatever happened—or didn’t—she must make sure he did not leave. If she woke with him beside her tomorrow morning, she would know there was a chance for them, but if he ran, she feared he would keep running, despite his promises.

A knock at the door had Cilly’s heart leaping, her brother’s deep voice confirming her future was about to begin.

“Are you ready, Cilly? It’s time to go.”

Cilly looked back at her reflection. The woman that returned her gaze looked determined and strong-willed. “I’m ready,” she called, and turned to leave.

Hawkney settled his grandmother upon the pew and was about to sit down as he saw Marcus enter the church. It was early yet, so he excused himself and went to meet him.

“Good morning. I didn’t expect to see you here,” Hawkney said, shaking the man’s hand.

Marcus returned a wry smile. “Your grandmother invited me. I believe she feels sorry for me and worries I spend all my time in brooding silence.”

Hawkney laughed. “I doubt that very much, but she was always fond of you. Come and sit with us if you like, there’s room to spare.”

Marcus nodded and paid his respects to Gee-Gee before sitting down.

“Did you decide on the portrait yet?” Hawkney asked, watching as a resigned expression settled over his friend’s face.

“I have little choice, do I? But I’m here and she’s here, so I may as well. Saves me carting my sorry carcass back to town.”

“By she, I take it you mean you have given Miss Foxworthy the commission?” Hawkney said pointedly.

Marcus glowered, waving a disinterested hand. “Yes, her. The artist.”

“Miss Foxworthy.”

“Miss Foxworthy,” Marcus agreed, sounding remarkably tetchy. Hawkney regarded him with interest. “I’ve not informed her yet, but I shall call upon her tomorrow.”

“You don’t like her?”

Marcus’ face darkened further. “Like? What the devil does that have to do with anything? I’m sitting for a portrait, not taking tea with the woman, but I never said I disliked her.”

Hawkney shrugged, a little amused. “No, but you act as though you do. She seems to unsettle you somewhat.”

Marcus brushed at an invisible piece of lint on his immaculate trousers with quick, brusque movements. “Nonsense. I just… it’s the way she looks at you. Like she can see into your bloody soul. Well, if she can, I hope she has a strong stomach, is all I’ll say.”

Ah.

“You said you did not wish to be flattered,” Hawkney pointed out, wondering if it was more the prospect of spending a good deal of time in proximity with the beautiful Miss Foxworthy that was getting the fellow in a lather.

Though he’d never had difficulty attracting the opposite sex, Marcus had long ago declared himself a confirmed bachelor and deliberately kept everyone, but especially women, at arm’s length. Of course, he wasn’t the easiest of companions, his manners were harsh, and he was rather hard-headed and intolerant of people’s finer feelings after so long fighting for his country in foreign climes. Still, Hawkney had noticed the way women looked at him, seeing the heroic soldier rather than the real man. If they believed they could change him, though… well, they might be in for a rude awakening.

He did not believe Miss Foxworthy had any such ambitions. She had looked at Marcus with candid curiosity, but he had sensed no judgement, and certainly nothing close to hero-worship.

“I do not wish to be flattered, the idea appals and sickens me,” Marcus retorted with his usual candour. “However, I-I do not wish to be—”

“Exposed?”

Marcus frowned. “That portrait she did of Miss Halfpenny…. Well, I’d be a damned fool not to ask her to paint me. The woman is clearly one of the most talented artists I have ever seen, not that I can claim to have any knowledge of the subject, merely my own two eyes. Yet, I did not wonder that Miss Halfpenny fled. She might have been standing before us naked, for it seemed every facet of her character was exposed to our gaze.”

“I hardly think so,” Hawkney snapped crossly, though he knew what Marcus meant. The painting had moved him, touched him deeply in ways he had yet to understand, and he had badly wished to follow Clara from the room, yet he had been unable to do so without causing a scene. That Sherry had done so had unnerved him, and yet he’d been grateful, especially when the man assured him she had been well, just a little overwhelmed.

“Perhaps not. But I seem to be stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea. Either some idiot will make me look like the Roman god of war in full panoply, or I shall show the world the truth, that I’m no bloody hero at all.”